Pub in Well Walk, 90p, for iced water, just to sit down and write this

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... apart from poetry, that is.

So I give up for the moment but aware that whatever it is that drives me to write and to think in this way is not going to end. For it's a something in the time, the time of 1995 . . . . Those numbers from the calendar they speak of other than these thoughts. For the time of each one is not and never can be what the clock and the metre can force into one's mind. If the body is truly here then it includes the farthest things. And the least substantial too.

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For nothing is outside.

But what of computing?

(c) john chris jones 1995